


One Day

by static_abyss



Series: Collection of Works for Femslash Feb 2016 [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Minor Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5889277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too many people in Allison's life died too fast for her to process it. First, her aunt, then her mother, then her grandfather. Allison had thought that she was fine, that she'd been able to compartmentalize, that pushing her sorrow into a box at the back of her brain meant that she was all right. She'd thought that the almost vicious desire to protect Lydia and the others from danger was a normal reaction. She'd thought that waking up afraid that something was going to happen without her, was a natural consequence of losing too many people, too fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Day

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally listed as Day 5: hurt/comfort on the tw femslash feb challenge, but i am posting it today because the rules said it can be out of order \o/ This one is dedicated to everyone, every single one of you who opens this page, this is for you.
> 
> I didn't quite know how to tag certain things in this fic, because they're unintentional and not done with the intent to hurt by the character, but they still count so I'm going to list them here and then expand in the notes below. There are things in this fic that could be taken as domestic abuse and there is some mention of suicidal tendencies. Please, please, please check the notes on the bottom for more specific details, if you need them.

The thing is, Allison saw this coming. 

*

She is seventeen when her mother kills herself, seventeen when her grandfather hands her a knife and tells her she'll feel better once she's killed every werewolf responsible. She is also seventeen when she pulls her bowstring tight and shoots Erica and Boyd. She watches them cry out for each other, their hands barely brushing, and the thing is, Allison knows it's not their fault. She just doesn't care.

She pulls herself out of it, lets her father hold her when she cries. She packs away her knives and the overwhelming hate that she can't seem to let go. She makes a box in her head and puts it away, pushes it behind an imaginary door, and tries not think about how Erica and Boyd can't quite look her in the eye. 

*

The thing no one ever told Allison was that hate is harder to get rid of than love is. She wakes up one day and can't remember the exact shape of her mother's smile. On a Sunday, before junior year, she forgets if her mother liked milk in her coffee. On a Tuesday, she forgets the feel of her mother's hands on her hair, the shape of her nose, the sound of her voice. Allison forgets her mother in bits, each piece chipping away even as she tries her hardest to hold on.

She can't forget the weight of anger on her chest, though. Nor the way each of her exhales burned, as though her rage was trying to claw it's way out of her body, the day her mother died. If Allison closes her eyes, she sees blood and fear. She can feel her relief, as though she were still living the moment her arrows went through living flesh. 

She will never be as free as she was then, she knows this. 

It scares her.

*

Malia doesn't quite know what to feel about Allison. Malia recognizes danger, the way rage clings to every one of Allison's actions. Allison is too calm, too still, her movements too fluid, too easy, the way she pulls the trigger on her crossbow. Malia gives her space, tries not to make eye contact. 

Malia grew up wild, but never out of control. 

When Malia looks at Allison, she sees something barely held back. Allison reminds Malia of a rabid wolf. 

*

Allison kisses Lydia on a Wednesday, her hands too rough in Lydia's hair, her teeth harsh and unfriendly. Allison shakes with it, her hands trembling where she has them pressed to Lydia's hips. 

_Please,_ she thinks. _Please, let this fix everything._.

Lydia presses into Allison, her hands softer, her exhales like gentle caresses across Allison's face. It's not enough to keep Allison from falling apart. But it's the middle of January of their junior year, and Allison hasn't believed she can keep herself together for a long time, now. She holds on tighter to Lydia, breathing in the scent of Lydia's flowery perfume, letting herself feel Lydia's hands on the side of her face. She memorizes the plastic taste of Lydia's lip gloss, and the soft sounds Lydia makes when Allison tips her head.

It changes nothing. Now, Allison is just scared that she's going to hurt Lydia, too.

***

Once, when Malia was ten, she saw a rabid dog wandering the forest. The dog was larger than her, black and light brown. Malia had only seen the dog, once, through two trees at the edge of a clearing, near the river where she went to drink. The dog had looked up at her, the white of its eyes gone red, foam dripping from the corners of its mouth. Malia had stayed still, her instincts letting her know that running was a bad idea. She'd stood at the edge of the clearing, the scent of decay strong in her nose.

She'd watched as the dog started forward, then tilted to the left, tripping over its own feet. It had stood up again, turned in a circle, before falling. Malia had watched it repeat the process four times, before it fell and didn't get back up. She'd sensed no danger, then. She'd stayed, some part of her, animal or human, wanting to bear witness. The dog had whimpered through its last hour, soft sounds that grew higher and needier as the hour passed. Just before the dog closed its eyes for the last time, it had looked up, straight at Malia, eyes clouded in confusion and helplessness. 

She will never forget that look.

She will never admit how much the look in Allison's eyes reminds her of the dying dog.

***

Too many people in Allison's life died too fast for her to process it. First, her aunt, then her mother, then her grandfather. Allison had thought that she was fine, that she'd been able to compartmentalize, that pushing her sorrow into a box at the back of her brain meant that she was all right. She'd thought that the almost vicious desire to protect Lydia and the others from danger was a normal reaction. She'd thought that waking up afraid that something was going to happen without her, was a natural consequence of losing too many people, too fast.

But Scott sleeps through the night. His pulse doesn't race when he doesn't see Lydia for too long. He doesn't wake up crying, or shivering. Scott doesn't sleep with a knife under his pillow. He doesn't kiss Lydia hard enough to hurt, doesn't press his fingers into every bit of skin until Lydia bruises. Scott doesn't fight the rage that always seems to be trying to rip itself from the center of Allison's chest. 

"I'm not okay," Allison whispers, in the darkness of her room.

She's sitting on her bed, her comforter wrapped around her shoulders, her window open to the night air. The knife in her hand weighs nothing. She could throw it against the wall with ease, could embed it into skin without a second thought. Allison could rip apart the world if she let herself. She could let go, let the rage consume her until there was nothing else, until she didn't have to think, didn't have to remember, until she forget that she couldn't even picture her mother's face without a picture anymore.

"Help," she whispers, shaking.

No one answers.

***

Malia doesn't quite mistrust Allison. She believes that Allison is on their side, that so long as that remains true, Allison isn't a threat. They're not friends, which is probably why it's so easy to walk over to Allison's house, the night before the full moon, at the end of their junior year.

Malia walks down the quiet suburban streets, the silence a relief after a whole day in class, constant sounds and movement still slightly overwhelming. She rolls her shoulders, swings her arms at her side, and lets herself enjoy the breeze. She's not as cold as she was in the beginning, but she's still in jeans and a long sleeved shirt, a sweater on top, and knee-high boots. 

Allison and her father live near the high school, in one of the newer apartment buildings. Scaling the side of the building is second nature to Malia, instinct taking over as she pulls herself up, the windows and balconies serving as footholds and handholds. 

Allison's window is closed, but the lights are on inside, and Malia slides onto the balcony next to Allison's window. 

The window opens before Malia can knock. Allison peers out, knife first. 

"Oh," she says, when she sees Malia.

Allison's grip on her knife relaxes, but the hard lines around her eyes don't. They haven't for as long as Malia has known her. 

"Hi," Malia says, sticking her hands into her sweater pocket.

Allison stares at her, suspicion giving way to contemplation, then to panic.

"Did something happen?" Allison asks.

"No," Malia says, quickly. She shakes her head. "No, I just wanted to talk to you."

Shock wins over on Allison's face. "We don't talk," she says.

Malia shrugs. "Yeah," she says. "That's why it has to be me."

"Come inside," Allison says, moving out of the way.

The window is less than a step away from the balcony, and Malia swings inside easily. She stays at the windowsill, her legs hanging down towards the dark blue carpet on Allison's floor. 

Allison looks like she wants to say something, but doesn't as she moves into the center of her room. Malia watches as Allison shifts to keep both Malia and her bedroom door in view. Allison's grip on her knife is white knuckled now, her shoulders tense, her face wary.

"Okay," Allison says, nodding for Malia to go on.

Malia notices the bags under Allison's eyes, the way she can't seem to stay still, how very much she reminds Malia of a caged animal. She thinks of the helplessness she'd seen in the dying dog, tries not to think about how Allison's eyes are less alive, how the makeup can't lie to Malia. 

"There are too many bruises on Lydia," Malia says, bluntly. "You're hurting her."

Allison opens her mouth in outrage, her entire body shaking in anger. Malia tenses, her whole body preparing for an attack, but Allison freezes. She stands there with her mouth open, her hands limp at her sides. She's looking at Malia, but isn't seeing her. Then, just as suddenly, her entire expression goes blank.

"You don't know anything," Allison says, her tone flat.

"Lydia loves you," Malia says, letting go of the windowsill to stand properly on Allison's bedroom floor. "They all love you, so they can't see properly. But _I_ can see what you're doing."

"I would _never_ hurt Lydia," Allison says, viciously.

Malia shakes her head, frustrated. "But you _are_."

Allison starts pacing, her hold on the knife steady, even as she shakes. Malia can smell rage, something cold and heavy in her nose. She's always associated Allison with the scent, has always known that Allison barely has control over it. Allison can't see it, but Malia can, because Malia knows what it's like to give into it without meaning to. Malia knows what it's like to hurt the people you love, knows what it's like to have no choice, to want with all your heart to stop and not be able to.

"You need help," she says.

Allison goes very still, her back to Malia and the window. She's so still and so angry, it takes Malia too long to realize that Allison is crying. Malia knows better than to touch her. 

"I can't make it stop," Allison says. "I don't know how."

"I didn't either," Malia says, knowing too well that Allison isn't talking about her tears. "When I first came back, I tried to hug my dad and broke two of his ribs. On the first full moon, I wanted to rip Stiles apart. I hurt Scott when he tried to help me."

Malia inches forward, making sure that her steps are heavy and loud. She circles Allison, giving her enough space to keep both of them comfortable. She ducks her head, trying to catch Allison's eyes. 

"I know what it's like to be angry," Malia says. 

Allison looks up then, her eyes red-rimmed, but her gaze, steady.

"Just let go," Malia says. "Break things. Punch something. Go running."

"I can't," Allison says. "I won't."

Malia nods. She's heard about Erica and Boyd, about Allison's mother and her aunt. 

"You have to try something," Malia says, shrugging. "If you don't, I'm not letting you near them. I'm not letting you near Lydia."

Allison glares at Malia, her tears drying the longer she looks at Malia. "You don't know me," Allison says. "You don't tell me what to do."

"They're my friends," Malia says. "I'm going to do everything I can to protect them."

***

Malia's words echo through Allison's head, even as Malia climbs back out of Allison's window. Allison can think of nothing else, except the certainty in Malia's expression, the way she'd been _so sure_ that she was protecting the people she cared about.

Allison thought she was doing the same.

It's that thought that snaps something in the center of Allison's chest. She's standing in the middle of her bedroom, the night before the full moon, wearing her favorite dark blue dress, and suddenly, she feels so completely alone it knocks the breath out of her chest. She gasps at the pain, at the sudden wash of hopelessness and sorrow. There's anger too, icy cold and all-encompassing, and it knocks everything else away.

Allison sits down hard, her back against her bed. She draws her legs up to her chest, wraps her arms around them, and wills the knot in her throat back down. She's burning with rage, all of it just barely held back as she tries to breathe through it, tries to calm herself down. She's shaking, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. She needs to leave, needs to get away from herself, needs to clamp this down so she doesn't hurt anyone. But she's alone. Her father is asleep in the room down the hall and Malia is gone. There's nowhere for her to go, nothing to distract her from the stream of thoughts that pass through her head. 

She's hot, every nerve in her body shouting at her, wanting something she can't quite identify. There's a scream building in Allison's throat, burning her. She shakes and hates herself. She hates what she's doing to Lydia, hates how she's poisoned everything in her life. She hates Malia for coming into her room and knocking her off balance, hates that Malia is right, hates just because that's all Allison can do. She can direct her hatred, her anger. It's the only way she feels remotely in control.

"Stop."

Malia's voice is soft, coming from Allison's window.

Allison refuses to look up.

"Stop it," Malia says, again, her footsteps heavy on Allison's carpet. "It's not going to fix anything."

"Stop what?" Allison spits out.

"Being angry like that is just hurting _you_ right now," Malia says. "You're not supposed to hurt yourself."

Allison turns her head, her face contorted with her rage. She's furiously pleased when she sees Malia take a step back.

"Leave," Allison says, her voice coated in quiet fury.

She doesn't know why she's angry, anymore, not really. But it feels good to hate this way. It makes her feel strong and powerful. She's not helpless this way. This way, Allison could tear apart anything that tried to hurt her, or anyone she cared about. 

"You're scaring me," Malia says, sounding as though she'd rather not be saying anything. "You're going to terrify them."

And just like that, Allison's not angry anymore. She exhales and the tightness in her chest eases. She hears Malia take the last few steps until she's standing right next to Allison. Some part of Allison knows to wait until Malia is sitting next to her, before she starts crying again. Except, it's not quiet this time. This time, Allison's body shakes, her breath catching every third sob. 

Malia wraps her arms around Allison's shoulders, and that single touch is enough. They sit there, not exactly friends, but both recognizing parts of each other, anyway. Allison leans against Malia's side, cold to the bone, and completely lost.

"It's okay," Malia starts. She snorts. "Well, no, actually, it's not okay. But it will be. If you want it to be."

Allison exhales, her body relaxing against her will. "I want it to be," she says.

She doesn't even realize how she falls asleep.

*

When she wakes the next morning, Malia is still there, spread out along most of Allison's bed, her face unguarded and young. Nothing's okay, Allison knows, but she recognizes herself in the harsh lines around Malia's eyes, and for the first time, in a long time, Allison believes that with a little work, she might be okay. One day.

**Author's Note:**

> The domestic abuse is there because Malia mentions that there are bruises on Lydia's skin after she and Allison are together. They could be just bruises from sex, but Malia mentions that Allison is hurting Lydia, so it falls into domestic abuse. There's no point in the fic where Lydia and Allison talk about this, as it ends before that happens, but there is a part where Allison shows remorse for having hurt Lydia. 
> 
> The suicidal tendencies warning is for the part in the fic where Malia thinks that Allison looks as helpless as a dying animal. 
> 
> The minor character death warning is for Allison's mom.


End file.
